Springtime in Paris
by Tim Radley
Summary: A paparazzo makes the mistake of trying to tail Lara in Paris. He soon ends up regretting it...


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Springtime in Paris

by Tim Radley

trad50@yahoo.co.uk

Tomb Raider, Lara Croft, her image and likeness are trademark and copyright © of EIDOS Interactive and Core Design. No infringement or challenge to these copyrights is intended.

This story contains scenes of violence. 

* * * * *

"-cking Bjork. Talk about an insane – "

Tony Marsh wove his way between two people deep in conversation, careful to avoid spilling anything from the pint glasses he was carrying. Then he eased himself into the one spare seat around the crowded table.

"Pint of Pride, Sol." He slid one of the glasses across to a wiry looking Afro-Caribbean man who was smoking a roll-up. The second he placed down next to him, "And a Heineken for you was it Rus?"

"A Stella you bleeding – " Rus's insult was drowned out as a wave of cheering and erupted from a group of twenty-something women from the bar.

"Yeah, yeah whatever. Tastes like effing water either way."

Rus muttered something beneath his breath, a dark resentful look forming on his face.

"Look, it's a Stella," Tony took a mouthful of his own drink and gave a small sigh of contentment. "Man, you're _so_ easy to wind up."

Across the table a large, booming voiced individual with a thick black beard – looked and sounded rather like a seedier version of Brian Blessed – continued to hold forth. He went by the moniker of Bent Jack, though quite how he'd come by it no one seemed to know. It didn't have anything to do with either sexuality or criminal leanings.

" – Heathrow airport. There I was, not making any trouble. Not getting in her face or nothin' like that. Keeping to the background. Being discreet even. . ."

"Oh yeah, discreet. We all know that you're known for your discretion Jack." Laughter went round the table at Baz's interruption. "Practically your middle name."

"As I was saying, _being discreet_. All I did was point my camera at her. It wasn't like flash bulbs going off in her eyes. And what does the mad Icelandic troll do? Only comes running straight at me, screaming her lungs out and swearing like you wouldn't believe. Some of that language. . . You all know I'm a man of delicate sensibilities."

More laughter at that.

"Anyway, I'm a bit stunned by that outburst so I'm rather slow to react when she leaps on top of me. I mean literally leaps on top of me. Now normally I'd be there with the jokes about taking it somewhere more private, if you know what I mean luv, but the shrieking harpy starts clawing at my eyes, and that rather puts a dampener on a man's enthusiasm."

"You saying you can't get it up Jack?"

"Ha bloody ha. Look, you can still see the scratches down my face. Thank Christ she doesn't have long nails is all I can say. By this point I'm starting to get more than a little worried. There's blood running down my face and the mad cow has a grip like a limpet. What do I do? I can hardly belt a woman one, can I?"

"You couldn't Jack. You'd get your arse kicked."

"I shall ignore that Baz, my intellectually challenged friend. So, as you can imagine I'm actually rather grateful when airport security show up. Probably a first I'll admit, but there you go. Ha, idiot I am, aren't I. Do they help me? Do they f – "

Tony tried to tune out. It was a story he'd heard many times before, from Jack on any one of the others, albeit in slightly different forms. It wasn't interesting or even amusing any more. Behind him someone was talking about his holiday in Tuscany. Hardly a preferable alternative. He tried to concentrate on his drink.

" – off me, and then one of them punches me in the stomach." At this point Jack paused to rub his more than ample beer-gut for effect. Then another of them pushes me face down on the floor – damaging my camera I might add – and stands on the middle of my back. You know how much back trouble I've had. . ."

And on, and on. Tony hid a grimace. Once Jack got started. . .

"Anyway, I've been in contact with my solicitors so we'll see who's going to have the last laugh."

"You think Bjork's bad?" That was Ryan's distinctive New Yorker accent. "Least she never tried to run you down in a Humvee. Unlike the good old Austrian Oak. Our pal Ah-nuld. . ."

_Give me strength._ Tony stifled a sigh. Somehow it always came down to this – swapping tedious stories about the trade until they were all too plastered to talk coherently anymore. Even football would be preferable. Although then of course you'd have to listen to Baz whining on about the state of his beloved Spurs until you wanted to stab yourself in the gut with a fork.

So as all the old one's – about how Liam Gallagher had urinated down Rus's leg; the time when Ryan had got worked over in a parking lot by the Baldwin brothers; how a friend of Baz's had been frenchied by a stoned Marlon Brando – got trotted out and Tony concentrated on the business of drinking. He caught Sol's gaze – who seemed every bit as disinterested as he was – and rolled his eyes. Sol gave him a nicotine stained grin.

"Tony, you're awful quiet tonight?"

"Hey?" He realised suddenly that he'd completely lost track of the conversation at least five minutes ago, and now everyone was staring at him. To make matters worse his pint glass was now empty.

After a moment's contemplation of the back of his knuckles he spoke two words he thought he never would again. "Lara Croft."

A wry, slightly pained smile twisted across his face. Why had he mentioned this now, of all times? "None of the people you lot have mentioned can hold a candle to Lara Croft."

There was a pause.

"Who the bleeding hell is Lara Croft?" That was Baz.

Bent Jack suddenly snapped his fingers. "I know. The woman who shot Bigfoot, right? Real looker." A series of hand gestures painted a picture more eloquently than a thousand words. "Yeah, I remember her. Died about a year back, am I right? I think I read the obituary."

Suddenly Sol was laughing so hard he was sloshing his drink onto his lap. "Shot Bigfoot? Are you serious? Damn, you always were a hairy bastard Tone. What happened? She mistake you for its Daddy?"

"Yeah, yeah Sol, laugh it up. No she ain't dead Jack. That was misreported. Showed up alive again a couple of days after."

"Ah, right." Jack's reply was rather vague. "That's good to hear. Shame to think of a body like that going to waste so young. As a general principle, like."

Next to him Rus was nodding. "Archaeologist and explorer type. Yeah I remember. Sort of Indiana Jones with tits. Wouldn't kick her out of bed myself."

"Had her fifteen minutes years ago now. A nobody anymore," was Ryan's dismissive insertion.

"Well I still don't have a clue who you lot are talking about." Baz sat back and folded his arms across his chest in disgust.

"So, you gonna tell this story about Lara Croft then," Bent Jack inquired after several seconds when Tony had noticeably failed to elaborate. "I can feel myself growing old here."

"Bah, you're already old."

_Am I going to tell it? Am I really?_ He remembered swearing that he wouldn't, in the immediate aftermath. Swearing that he wasn't even going to thing about it again. But the passage of time and old wounds, as the say. And now, looking back on it, it almost seemed funny. No reason to keep quiet anymore. Not really. It wasn't as if any of this lot was going to believe a word in any case.

"Okay." A slightly off-key looking grin split his face. "If you want to hear it I'll tell it." He took a deep breath.

* * *

It happened in Paris, about a year before the Diana business – so we weren't quite viewed on a par with paedophiles and the like yet. At the time a variety of French glossies were paying big bucks for pictures of Isabelle Adjani. I think she'd just got herself a new lover back then and was maybe one of the judges for the Palm d'Or at Cannes that year, so I guess that was the reason. Anyway, you know how it is. You go where the money is, and Paris isn't such a bad place to be hanging out. Especially in the springtime.

In fact if it weren't for all the bloody French it'd be just about perfect. Always one fly in the ointment.

That particular evening had turned out to be a complete washout. Isabelle and said lover were supposed to be eating out that night. Perfect opportunity to get some nice intimate pictures. You know the drill.

Unfortunately she's a pretty slippery customer is Isabelle. You'd think at least some of them – the more intelligent ones – would realise we're doing them a bloody favour. Publicity is the oxygen by which those guys breathe. Take us away and watch them starve. I'd almost be tempted, just to see them crawling. . . But anyway I'm getting away from the point here.

I end up on the back of a motorcycle with a psycho Frenchman by the name of Victor – black guy from Senegal originally; if he ever offers you a lift anywhere decline. We're following a Merc to a restaurant, except when it gets there we find we've been decoyed. Wrong bloody Merc and wrong bloody restaurant too.

So Victor starts ringing around. Manages to pick up a few rumours. Enough anyway to see us on a mad dash around most of Paris's top restaurants, chasing shadows. I can't even begin to describe the sheer gut-wrenching terror of it. Several times I swear we came this close to dying in a fireball and a heap of twisted metal.

It gets to somewhere after midnight, and still nothing. I've completely had enough by this time, and all I want is to get back to my hotel and crawl into bed. Get off that blasted motorbike at the least. Victor's all for continuing though. Persistent bastard I'll grant you. We have a bit of an argument and I end up getting dumped on the pavement while he screeches off into the distance.

You know me, normally I'd be well steamed by that, but hey, at the time I have to say I was pretty damn relieved. Don't have to risk heart failure or my hair turning prematurely white anymore. Not to say sudden death. Fine by me.

I find myself in front of the Garnier Opera house on Avenue de la Opera. Long way from my hotel, but I figure the walk will do me good. Calm me down after the evening's fun, and hell, I can always get the metro.

Slightly strange looking building the Garnier, like an overly ornate mantelpiece viewed from the front. Impressive enough if you like the over-the-top wedding cake school of architecture I suppose. But what am I telling you this for? None of you bloody philistines give a damn about anything as poncy as architecture, do you? Never mind opera. Bunch of fat birds warbling nonsensically in foreign, am I right Rus? No, no need for you to answer.

So I'm looking in that direction when I spot a figure emerging from the front. Nothing strange about that you would think. 'Cept as far as I know the place is closed until 1st of May for renovation. That's a couple of weeks away yet.

So it kind of piques my curiosity, you know?

I realise the person is a woman, and she seems to be in something of a hurry. Cinderella, trying to get home before she turns into a pumpkin, or whatever. At least she's running down the front steps at quite a rate, this weird black hooded cloak thing she's wearing flaring out behind her. 

After a couple of seconds she gets annoyed by the cloak and pulls the thing off, just dropping it on the pavement behind her without so much as looking. As I said, in a hurry.

Underneath she's wearing this slinky black evening gown. Fills it out very nicely I can't help but notice. It's slit up each side and flashes her legs with each step. Nice legs too. 

There's this white domino half-mask covering the top half of her face. The sort of thing you'd wear to a masquerade. Not that I've ever been to one. As I watch a hand – covered by an elbow length black glove – comes up and rips the mask away. It flutters to the pavement behind her like an enormous butterfly.

Before she's past me I catch a glimpse of her face. I recognise her.

Yeah, yeah surprise, surprise. Lara Croft. I said this story was about her didn't I?

Now like you say Ryan, she may have had her fifteen minutes with the Bigfoot thing. If so she was getting a five or ten minute encore back then. First off there were rumours about her involvement in some kind of diplomatic incident in China. Involving the mysterious collapse of a section of the Great Wall if you believe the whispers going round. Second, there'd been some kind of shoot out at her house about a month previously. Left a number of men dead. It was in all the newspapers at the time. Some of you guys must remember that surely? Self-defence I think the inquest said.

What I'm saying is that just for a brief period she was pretty hot stuff. I know plenty of editors who'd have paid good money for pics of her back then, and after the washout of rest of the evening it looked to like my luck was changing. This'll show Vincent, I remember thinking.

So I start taking snaps of her.

Unfortunately I've missed the best shots already. If I'd recognised her earlier I'd have some dynamite stuff. Her running down the steps of the Garnier Opera house dressed in an evening gown, ripping her mask off – you couldn't get better if you'd posed it. All I've got now though is the back of her head. Not much good. 

Still, it seems too good an opportunity to miss. I start running after her.

Damn she's fast. I wasn't in the best of shape back then. Too much fags and booze and not enough exercise. What's changed? Yes, ha, ha. Thanks for that Barry. I'm off the fags I'll have you know, and I'm down the gym three times a week. You're a fine one to talk anyway. That a personal airbag you're carrying under your shirt?

Anyway, very soon I'm puffing for breath and she's pulling away from me steadily. I get the impression that she could move a lot faster too – if she wanted to, and wasn't hampered by that dress.

I'm just about close enough to see her turn into a sidestreet up ahead and vanish from sight. That spurs me on a bit faster. I'm not losing her now. Not without at least one saleable picture. You know how I am when I get my mind set on something.

Bugger. No sign of her.

I slow down, gasping and red faced. The street she turned onto is a residential one, narrower than the main thoroughfare we've been running down, with lines of parked cars. Rows of no doubt heinously expensive flats rise up on either side.

And Lara Croft might as well have vanished into thin air. A I remember I succumbed to a fit of rather loud swearing then. Lucky that there was no one much around to hear me.

Getting more and more frustrated I walk slowly down the street, peering into every doorway and between the cars for any sign of her. Can't have lost her surely? I wasn't that far behind. 

Still no sign though, so I reason she must have gone into one of the flats. There's a light coming from an upstairs window across the road. The only one in the entire street.

Got her. All I have to do is sit tight until she comes out again and I've got a sure-fire picture. Leaving an unknown residence after spending the night. Editors will love that. Secret rendezvous. Wild sex romps. You can do just about anything with it.

At this point either doubt or sanity starts to creep in. Take your pick. It's after midnight and she isn't likely to be coming out again till morning. Not if she's anything like a normal person. 

So do I really want to spend all night sitting out here on the street? Sure I've done it before, although I've always usually had company to help keep me awake. And before it's always been for an absolute certain A1 gold picture. Something worth in the order of a few grand. Croft maybe undergoing a bit of a renaissance to her fame, but she isn't going to fetch me anything like that. A couple of hundred if I'm lucky. Fine for an opportunistic snap. Crap for an all-nighter.

And what if the light's just coincidence? I never saw her go in after all.

I've about decided to give it up as a loss. Maybe I can salvage something from those pictures I took of her back. I'd much rather be in bed, I decide.

Then someone hits me across the neck. Goddamned hard.

Before I know what's happened I'm down on my knees on the pavement, dazed and unable to think straight. Yes, ha, ha, spare me the obvious gag. An instant later I get hit again in the middle of my back and I'm face down on the pavement.

A knee presses hard down on me, and I'm pinned. Finally I get my act together enough to start struggling. The pavement is imprinting itself on my cheek and my spine's beginning to creek from the pressure being put on it. 

A circle of cold metal presses against the back of my neck. 

I freeze. 

It's a gun.

* * *

"What sort of a gun?"

"You what, Rus?"

"What sort of a gun was it?"

Tony's expression was momentarily nonplussed. "A gun, gun. You know, bang, bang you're dead. A gun. What the hell difference does it make what sort of gun it bloody well was?"

"Quite a big difference Tone. If you're going to get shot in the head by it. Say it's a .22. That makes it just about powerfully enough to puncture your skull going in, but not powerful enough to exit the other side. It sort of bounces off the bone, ricocheting around inside and turning your brain into strawberry jam. Choice of the professional killer is that. Something like a 9mm on the other hand, that's powerful enough to go clean through. Depending on where it hits it might not even kill you. Just lobotomise you a bit. People have been known to survive. Hell, someone like you Tone might not even notice. Then, right at the top end of the scale you've got your Desert Eagle .50 magnum. To quote old Clint 'It'll blow your head clean off, punk'."

"No, no, no." The interruption came from Baz. "It's '. . . do I feel lucky? Well do you, punk?' Punk is never mentioned in the 'Blow your head clean off' bit. Makes me sick hearing people misquote the master."

"I thought it was 'Go ahead punk, make my day'." That was Sol, in the middle of rolling another cigarette.

"What's it matter? Those films are all shite anyway."

"Ooooh, hark at Mr. Lah-di-dah Barry Norman their. 'Those films' are absolute classics I'll have you know. What do you think they're going to be watching a hundred years from now? Not your 'Crouching Tiger, Poncing Dragons' I can tell you."

"Yeah. Ryan, isn't it some kind of treasonable offence in the US, slagging off Clint films? If not it bloody well should be."

"Do you guys want me to tell this or not?" Tony finally lost patience.

"Sorry, sorry. Not interrupting your flow are we Tone?" Sol sniggered.

"You still haven't said what sort of gun it was." Rus sounded slightly sulky.

"Ahhh! A pistol. Shiny stainless steel thing. Not one of them whatdyoucallem's? Yeah, revolver. I 'spect you want make and model too. Well you can sod of, cause I don't bloody well know."

"Did it have. . ."

"Rus, what you? A bullied no friends American teenager with an unhealthy interest in Marilyn Manson records?"

"Tasteful Tone. Real tasteful."

"Well, are you lot going to listen or not? No skin off my nose either way."

"Just get on with it."

* * *

"Friend of Gerard's are we?" 

Despite the fact I've been following Croft I have to say I'm surprised when the voice turns out to belong to a woman. I guess I'm one of those types who still have some old-fashioned views about the female of our species. I don't expect that sort of violence anyway. Initially she speaks in French, but I'll translate. I know Rus has enough trouble simply with the one language.

"Heh, what? Who?" Always articulate in a time of crisis me.

"Oh, you're English. Essex unless I'm mistaken."

"Er, yeah. That's right. Dagenham." Still a bit lost.

The gun-barrel stops pressing into my neck quite so firmly, although the pressure of her knee doesn't let up any. "So what were you following me for, assuming Gerard hasn't developed a thing for Essex boys?"

"Gerard? Who's the hell's Gerard?"

I get the impression she thinks I'm having her on. "Gerard Montarron."

The name's familiar. I know that as soon as she says it, but I can't remember where I recognise it from. "I wasn't following you." The lie slips out without me thinking. A mistake, I realise before I've even finished speaking.

It earns me a hefty clip round the side of my head, which sets my ears ringing. "Sorry, that answer simply won't do. What do we have here. . ?" She prises the camera from out of my grasp, where I've been trying to shield it from coming to any harm. Always get your priorities right.

"Well? I'm waiting."

"I'm a. . . a photojournalist."

"Oh, a photojournalist." There's an element of mocking to her tone that really gets my back up.

Perfectly respectable job, this. Or it should be. We simply respond to a demand, right? We don't create it. "And which esteemed publication would you be working for? Hello! Magazine, or something equally classy?"

"I'm freelance."

"Ooh, freelance. So, get any good pictures of me did you?"

I grit my teeth. "No. Just your back."

"Ah. My best side." She lets the camera drop. I manage to half shield its fall so it doesn't smash apart on the pavement.

The pressure on my back eases a little and I let out a cautious breath – start to maybe relax. Prematurely it turns out. A moment later her weight slams back down full force. My face slams against the pavement, almost hard enough to break my front teeth. "Who are you really?"

"A photojournalist. I told you!" My nose is bending sideways.

"You seriously expect me to believe that? Come on, I rate what, at best C-list celebrity? Somewhere below a celebrity chef I'd imagine. And I'm supposed to buy the fact that some sleazy little paparazzo would bother to waste time trailing after me? Credit me with a little intelligence, please."

"It's the truth!" It feels like my nose is going to break any second now. I'm trying to struggle but it's useless. I suppose I should be embarrassed admitting this, being completely overpowered by a girl, and I'm sure you guys are going to a field day with it. But hell, she's one seriously strong woman. "It was opportunistic. I wasn't looking for you, honest. I just recognised you as you ran past. Decided to see if I could get any good pictures."

"Uh-huh. So who were you looking for? When I just happened along."

"Isabelle Adjani."

"Isabelle Adjani? Very beautiful lady don't you think? And you were expecting to find her outside the front of an opera house that's closed for renovation? About a month early on your part I think."

"Look, could you stop trying to push my face through the pavement please." I make another quickly subdued attempt at freeing myself.

"I could shoot you in the back of the head if you prefer. Just to be on the safe side." 

The way she says it is bloody scary. And right then I genuinely believed that she would do it. Now? Now I think she was bluffing. Probably. One thing's for sure, you wouldn't catch me in a game of poker with her. Strip or otherwise.

"I wasn't looking for her in front of the opera house. I was on my way back to my hotel. To bed. Who the hell do you think I am anyway?"

Suddenly I can feel her hand moving across my arse. And I always used to think I wouldn't mind being felt up by a beautiful woman. I guess having a gun to your head changes the quality of the experience. Her fingers slide into the back pocket of my jeans and pull my wallet out. I think I must have yelled in protest at that. Something that earns me another casual blow to the head in any case.

"Anthony Marsh. Well I guess it's slightly more original than Wayne or Darren. So Anthony, what am I going to do with you?"

"How about letting me go before I call the police and have you arrested for threatening to kill me?"

"What an amusing suggestion. Do you know the names of the Chief of Police's three children? No? I do. It was Brigitte's seventeenth birthday last week. I hope she liked the card I sent her." 

I get the message all right. "Look, I made a mistake okay. I haven't got a clue what you're involved in, and I don't care. Just let me go. Please. I won't tell anyone anything, I swear." Okay, I'm begging. I'll admit it. I'll bet you'd beg too in similar circumstances.

I hear her let out a breath.

"You know Anthony, I'm almost starting to believe you are what you say you are." She relaxes her grip enough that I can lift my head a fraction, and breathing suddenly becomes slightly easier. "Bad luck on your part to pick tonight. Tonight is not a good night."

Strange, but I've already reached that conclusion all on my own.

She's about to say more I sense, but a shout from the head of the street interrupts her. The voice is male and the shout in French. Over here? I think that was it. Suddenly the weight on my back vanishes. I can hear the sound of multiple sets of approaching footsteps.

"And it looks like it's just gone and got a whole lot worse."

* * *

"Getting up Rus? Your round I think. Mine's a pint of Pride." Sol, as always extremely quick on the uptake where the possibility of another free drink was concerned.

"Hey, I was just going to the toilet."

"Yeah, but he's right. It is about your round. And since you're up. . ."

"Bugger off Baz." Rus's expression was indignant.

"I'll have a Drambuie. Thanks for asking. You're a dear lad." Bent Jack, trying unsuccessfully to suppress laughter.

"Stella."

"Rum 'n Coke." 

"Another Pride here."

Rus turned away, muttering darkly to himself as he stalked off. Tony let his gaze drop down to the back of his hands once again. He rubbed his thumb along a faded scar. _Why am I even bothering?_

"So come on Tone. You can't leave it there. Approaching footsteps I think it was."

"I thought I was sending you lot to sleep, Sol."

"Nah, go ahead. Nothing better to do just now. No need to wait for Rus. As you implied, he's one of the hard of thinking. Attention span of a goldfish. You've probably lost him already."

* * *

I role over onto my side.

She's crouching beside me, peering across the bonnet of a car, gun pointed at something I can't see. Coincidentally the angle I'm lying in and the way she's crouching afford me a perfect view straight up her dress. 

Rather disappointingly I see she's wearing knickers. Black ones. Not even see through. The view of the inside of one of her thighs almost makes up for it though. Fit in every sense of the word, I can assure you. Muscles like coiled springs. I can just imagine having them wrapped. . . Well, best stop thinking about it. Otherwise I'm going to need to go and have a cold shower and a lie down.

I think it's heartening that you can notice and think about such things even in the most trying circumstances though, don't you? Kind of makes me feel good about the human species. That we'll be okay after all. Or maybe I'm just a dirty bastard.

_Bang!_

Any of you guys been shot at? Yeah? Well you'll know what I mean when I tell you it's a seriously unpleasant experience. Especially when you can't see the shooter, or even the direction the bullet is coming from. My instinctive reaction is to try and press myself even lower to the pavement and cover my head with my hands.

I'll leave the heroism to those stupid enough to want to try it.

More footsteps, approaching rapidly from across the street. Someone emerges from behind a parked van. I see Lara swing round and shoot him in a single smooth motion, calm and effortless as you like. The bullet takes him in the middle of the chest and he falls over backwards, arms twitching.

The footsteps come to an abrupt halt and I hear swearing in French. Someone unwisely sticks his head around the van's side. She misses this time, by about two inches. This bullet raises a line of sparks from the van's side. There's more swearing followed by silence.

"Get up. Get your fat arse moving." There are probably a few more insults aimed my way too. I don't recall.

"You shot him." I nod towards the fallen man lying in the gutter as I haul myself to my feet. Still some life in him judging by his continued movements.

"Well done. I can tell you're a man who uses his powers of observation for a living." Sarky cow. Did I mention that? "Now kindly run."

I don't need telling a second time. Well, third if you're counting. I'm off like my life depended on it. Which, oddly, it does. Even so I get they impression she could leave me behind easily if she didn't keep pausing to squeeze off shots in an effort to keep these bozos pinned.

Several seconds later a burst of gunfire comes back at us. One of them has got an Uzi type of thing. Thank god Rus hasn't got back yet. He'd probably want to know precise technical specs. This time the bullets come so close I can feel them whizzing past me. Not fun. I duck between two more parked cars in an effort to find some cover.

In the meantime Lara's conjured up another pistol from somewhere – her handbag probably; women keep the strangest things in them. She returns fire with one in each hand. Up till then I thought that sort of thing only happened in John Woo movies.

I catch a glimpse of another man going down in a heap just before she executes a diving roll into cover beside me. Scarcely even breathing heavily.

An answering retort from the Uzi blows out the windscreen and side windows of the car behind us. Lara's up before the glass finishes falling, leaning inside and opening the front door. She gets into the driver's seat and reaches beneath the dashboard.

"Hotwiring it." She answer's my unspoken question. "Something every girl should know how to do." Then she thrusts one of her pistols into my hand. "I'll need about twenty seconds. Keep them occupied."

"Wha. . ?"

"Oh for Christ's sake. Point it in their direction and pull the bloody trigger. It's not difficult. If it helps think of it as a camera."

Two of them have taken the opportunity the brief lull has provided to break cover and are now dashing straight towards us. I swallow hard. Me, shoot somebody? Then, without pausing to think about it, I lift the gun and start firing.

Contrary to what she said it's actually bloody difficult. Not the firing part – that's easy enough. But getting the bullets to go anywhere close to where you want – that's a real skill. I manage hit everything except what I'm aiming at.

It's enough to send the two of them scrambling for cover though, which I suppose is the main thing.

"Relax your grip. You'll find it easier."

Easy for her to say. The pistol comes up empty. My wrist feels numb. Yes very, funny. How did I know you were going to say that Jack? Anyway, she finally gets the engine started.

"Get in." 

Before I've had time to react she grabs hold of my belt and yanks me backwards. I clout my head hard against the frame of the door and end up sprawled across her lap. She pulls my legs in, than slams the door shut. 

More bullets blow out all the remaining windows, so without waiting for me to get off her she sets the car in motion. There's a crash as she manages to clout the car behind us. Then we're off and running.

Although running may be too strong a word.

At this point I should probably mention that the car we're in is a Renault Twingo. You know, one of them tiny cutesy French woman's cars? Yeah, that's 'em Ryan. All in all not the first thing I'd have chosen, personally, as a getaway car. It accelerates somewhat slower than your average glacier.

I'm sprawled on top of her still – a position I'd appreciate a good deal more in different circumstances – when concerted gunfire starts to come after us. I can hear bullets flying all around, either pinging off the car's bodywork or punching straight through it. Subconsciously I'm waiting for one of them to hit me.

There's a loud bang from somewhere much closer than the gunshots are coming from. The car starts to fishtail wildly. Blown out one of the rear tyres.

I suppose I'm hampering her efforts, but she loses control enough that we end up veering right. A fraction of a second later there's a thud followed by the sound of shrieking metal. I get thrown forwards hard against the dashboard and the next few seconds are a blank. 

When awareness returns we're still scraping along the line of parked cars amid a wail of tortured metal, sparks flying up past the broken windows. Lara's struggling with the steering wheel.

"Get off me." Hissed between her teeth, like this is somehow my fault. 

Abruptly we veer over to the left and the shrieking stops. The car judders and bounces all over the road, going forward only as its mean direction. At least we seem to have outdistanced the shooters. No more bullets are flying after us anyway.

"Carefully!"

Contrary, like all women. I'm only trying to do what she asked. Just typical. Drives like a bloody woman too. Suddenly we've mounted the pavement on the other side of the road. To this day I have no idea how we managed to avoid smacking into that lamppost. One instant it's looming directly in front of us. The next we're past and I'm trying to recover from near heart failure.

Finally I manage to extricate myself from on top of her. For some reason this earns me another nasty glare. It wasn't as though I meant to put my hands there.

I start to say something, but we hit a junction. Too fast in this ridiculous little heap, even if we had four intact tyres. We're up on two wheels and I'm sure we're going to tip. You wouldn't want to try an elk test in one of these things. Then we're back down again, bouncing and jolting, and I'm sprawled across the dashboard, my head sticking through the space where the windscreen used to be, wind blowing hard in my face.

Seatbelt. Never been too fussed about them up to this point in my life. Suddenly it becomes my mantra. After several seconds struggling with shaking hands it finally clicks shut. 

Much to my dismay I realise there are other cars around us now. As if this wasn't bad enough already. A glance in the rear-view mirror shows a pair of headlights, looming large. They belong to a huge black Renault Safrane – this car's big, big daddy – which looks suspiciously like one of those French government-mobiles you see all the politicians being ferried around in.

Belatedly I notice that the man in the front passenger seat is leaning out of the window and aiming a gun our way.

I duck. The bullet passes straight through the vacant windows of our car and out the other side. It takes out the back window of the car in front of us. "Lara!"

"Yes. I know. Thank you." She could at least try to sound grateful for the warning. 

The headlights in the mirror are getting larger at an alarming rate. It's going to ram us. I brace myself for impact just before a horrendous jolt rocks the car. Suddenly we're sliding all over the road again. If I hadn't managed to get the seatbelt on in time I think I'd have gone straight through the broken windscreen. As it is the breath gets knocked from my body as I'm yanked back into the seat.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see sparks flying up from the road, and through the ringing in my ears that horrible shrieking, scraping sound persists. The car's ride has taken a harsh juddering quality. Obviously the blown tyre has now completely disintegrated and we're running on the wheel rim.

More bullets fly and a glance across at Lara shows her doubled over.

For one horrible second there I have the impression she's been shot – that we're going to crash for sure. But no, she's just ducking out of the way – apparently through some kind of sixth sense. As I watch a bullet erupts through the front of her headrest in a spray of foam and stuffing.

Time to duck too I think.

Another violent jolt slams through the car. This time we veer uncontrollably into the lane of oncoming traffic.

I may sound pretty calm about this now. Strangely I was actually quite calm at the time too. In a completely paralysed with terror kind of way. It was like. . . oh I don't known. . . like I was an observer watching all this from the outside. Not like I was right in the heart of it and quite possibly about to die at any second. The brain has to find a way to cope I guess.

So I watch almost sedately as a pair of headlights come straight towards us at speed. There's a squeal of brakes; a blare of a horn. The car coming towards us swerves out of our path then loses control, smashing straight into a brick wall.

More horns blare; a chaotic cacophony. We cause at least one more accident before Lara finally manages to get us under something like proper control again and back in the correct lane. Ahead of us is another junction. The traffic lights are in our favour. Thank Christ. No way we'd have stopped in time if they weren't.

I complained earlier about the way Victor rides his motorbike. Victor though is only _nearly_ suicidal.

The mad bitch actual tries to turn the corner. Her foot is planted tight to the floor. We've got three wheels. We must have managed to get our speed up to around fifty. Still she tries to turn.

The laws of physics catch up. We spin. An almost graceful 360º pirouette. By some miracle she manages to catch it and control it before we hit anything or vice-versa. Even more miraculously we end up pointing in approximately the right direction and she manages to get us going forward again.

The Safrane doesn't even start to turn behind us. It just shoots straight across the junction without so much as slowing. Then it's gone from sight.

I swear Lara looks slightly smug at this. As if it was somehow a carefully planned manoeuvre rather than a freakish bit of luck.

That look doesn't last long. We're driving parallel to some park. Jardin de Tuileries? Not sure. Completely lost my bearings to be honest. There's another loud bang from behind us.

Not more gunfire I realise after a quick bout of panic. Instead it's the other rear tyre going. Lara swears. Have you noticed how swearing always sounds better if you do it in a posh accent?

She brakes. Doesn't have much choice this time. No way we can keep going with both back tyres gone. The car's basically screwed. As it is every little imperfection in the road's surface is like a knife up my. . . er, spine. My teeth are jarring together so hard I'm afraid I'm going to break them.

"What the hell. . ?"

Thud. Up the curb to mount the pavement again, though this time apparently deliberately. We swipe a bin, seemingly for the sole purpose of doing a bit more damage – I wouldn't like to be the owner of this heap when they find out what's happened to it.

"Where are we going?!"

Ignored again. Persona non grata. She aims the front of the car at a gap in the railings. A flight of low, broad steps lead down ahead of us into the park itself.

"Lara!"

Too late. A car is not designed for going down stairs. Especially not in this condition. Every step is a form of torture, and it seems to go on forever – a continual series of jarring thuds, accelerating all the time. I'm wailing by the time we hit the gravel path at the bottom, bouncing up onto the wet grass and sliding, half sideways out of control.

Ahead of us is a stand of shrubbery. We're not going to be able stop I realise, as it looms ever closer. Just before a thick wall of branches comes in through the windows I manage to duck. Finally we come to a halt.

For several seconds I scarcely dare breath. Then, perversely, I find myself grinning. Still alive somehow. Bonus.

* * *

"There you are Rus. Thought you'd done a runner."

"Yes, ha ha. You seen what it's like trying to get served up there?" He plonked the drinks in the middle of the table, sloshing half the glasses' contents into the tray they were on.

"Careful!"

"So that's yours Tony. Sol. Ryan. And the lovely Jack here." Said with a twist of the lips that might possibly be interpreted as a smile.

"Ooh, thank you Deary." 

There was one more glass left on the tray and Barry started to reach across the table for it. Rus beat him to it. "And a Stella for me. Oh, sorry Baz, did I forget yours? Still, never mind. You've been saying you ought to start cutting back for a while now, haven't you? Now's as good a time any, eh."

"Bastard."

"Ouch Baz. That sounded like it was said with real feeling. Almost like you meant it."

"I meant it alright you fu-" Baz started to rise from his chair, skin flushing to a shade of beetroot. Bent Jack laid a restraining hand on his meaty shoulder.

Tony stifled a groan. Baz was getting increasingly quick to anger these days. Especially after a few pints. And Rus had developed a knack of annoying the tits off people whilst remaining blissfully oblivious to how far he was pushing things.

Sol stepped in, helping Jack ease Barry back into his seat. "It's okay Baz. I'll get you a drink. Just sit tight there. Rus was just having a bit of a joke. Weren't you Rus?"

Rus muttered something that might approximate to an apology.

"Bloody punk." Baz's face was still dangerously red.

"Now, now Baz. We were listening to Tone. Tone was just about to continue, weren't you?"

"Er, yeah." Tony let out a breath. "Yeah, I was."

* * *

"Springtime in Paris. Is there anything on earth more ghastly?"

I don't think I'm really meant to hear this. We've come out of the other side of the park and are now jogging along with the Seine to our right. I gather that the comment was engendered by a couple we just passed, sitting on one of the benches, wrapped up together and in the middle of a thorough exploration of each others tonsils.

"Boyfriend just dumped you has he?" I'm trailing along behind her still, panting for breath while she still looks fresh as a daisy.

If looks could kill. . . Lets say this one would have been a damn sight more fatal than any of the bullets that have been flying around lately. "No," icily precise. "Why are you still here?"

A good question. I could – and almost certainly should – have slipped away at any point during these past five minutes. So why haven't I? Well. . . I know none of you guys are going believe this, but I think the evening's experiences managed to awaken a tiny spark of journalistic integrity in me. A need to see this out and find out the truth of what's really going on. Christ, call me Fox Mulder.

No Sol, it has absolutely nothing to do with me fancying the pants off her. Although I'll grant you that does sound much more plausible. Okay, I'll cut it with the pretentious bollocks now.

My mouth works for a second or so before words start coming out. "Not the romantic sort I take it?"

Before I can react she grabs me by the collar, swings me round and slams me against the railings. "Wha. . ?"

"Just what are you playing at, really?" Her expression is grim.

"I thought we'd been through this once already," I protest. She's bending me backwards, out over the river and lifting me up onto my tiptoes into the bargain. One shove and I go for a late night swim.

"That was when I thought you might actually be telling the truth."

"I am. I am. Honest!" I can see myself in the river so I go with a quick spot of embellishment. "What if they come after me? I was shooting at them – thanks to you. What am I supposed to do then? I'm not letting you dump me in it. Uh-uh, no way." Well maybe not embellishment when I come to remember. Maybe more like terrified paranoia.

She lets go of me. The look on her face is one of borderline disgust. Before she gets a chance to say anything though, the helicopter passes overhead.

Ah yes, the helicopter. Skipped ahead slightly there. It showed up while we were struggling to get out of the car. I know Lara was convinced straight off it was more of 'them'. At that stage I thought she was imagining things to be honest, though this makes the fourth time it's passed over. Even I'm starting to wonder a little.

And no, before you ask I don't know what sort of helicopter. A white one. Could belong to the police. Could be a news crew. Could be anything. Your typical, everyday helicopter. One thing I did spot though was that it had a sort of pod thing beneath its nose. At the time I was none the wiser, but I've seen all that 'Police! Camera! Action!' Or 'World's Scariest Police Chase's' crap since and I'm pretty sure it was one of those thermal imaging thingies. Which means we were probably glowing like beacons.

We get moving again, and I continue to follow. She could just dump me by speeding up to a degree where I can no longer keep up, so I assume I've got her tacit agreement. However grudging.

"So who are these guys, exactly?"

"I told you."

"Er, maybe you could refresh my memory a little as to who this Gerard Montarron bloke is."

Silence. For a time we just keep on running and I assume she's not going to respond. I jolt in surprise when she speaks again. "Gerard Montarron as in the Gerard Montarron who is the French minister of culture."

Ah. _That_ Gerard Montarron. 

The feeling is like a bolt of electricity passing straight up my spine. That's not pleasant, just in case you were wondering. I'm guessing none of you lot has the foggiest who this Gerard Montarron is, right? You couldn't name half of the current British cabinet ministers never mind some French politician from several years ago.

I take it from the blanks looks I'm correct. Well, he was a pretty big thing at the time. That very rare instance of a politician who was genuinely popular. The mythical compassionate face of conservatism, etc. etc. Bigger things were being mooted.

She continues. "Gerard Montarron, hero of _la resistance_. Gerard Montarron, friend of my goddamned father. I should have bloody well known I couldn't trust him."

A thought occurs. I get the lightning bolt feeling again, and this time it's even more unpleasant. "You mean we've been shooting at what? Police? French secret service?" Suddenly my heart is racing even faster than it was originally from the strain of all this running.

"Something like that. Probably some military too I'd guess. Basically his own private army of loyal supporters and zealous nutters."

"And you've just killed at least two of them!" I've developed a squeak, and my sweat has turned cold. You hear stories about the French police. I don't know how much truth there is in them, but they're not pleasant stories. Mainly about suspected Arabic terrorists having 'accidents' in custody – disappearing completely. I'd guess cop killing would be regarded on a similar level.

"Unfortunately I very much doubt anyone suffered worse than bruising."

"Huh?" The helicopter is coming round again for another sweep. Suddenly it figures much, much larger in my thoughts.

"They were wearing Kevlar vests. You can tell by the way their suits were hanging."

I guess that's the sort of detail it takes a woman to notice. Me? I had rather more urgent things on my mind than whether their suits looked right.

As the helicopter comes overhead again I duck unconsciously. Christ knows why. It's not even as if its low or anything. Just the idea of who it might be I guess.

Suddenly she stops in front of me without the slightest warning. I run straight into her back, sending her staggering forward. Does she look pleased about it? Take a wild guess.

She's looking all around, both guns at the ready – real edgy looking. To be honest I can't see anything different from a few seconds earlier. Then she spins and fires without any warning, both pistols blazing.

I'm still not used to it. The noise sets me scrambling backwards. Where Lara was aiming, across the street, a couple of figures that to me had been completely invisible in the shadows make a break for cover. One of them goes down, crying out and clutching at his leg.

About half a second later a gunshot comes straight back at us. I have no idea how close, or otherwise, it comes to hitting. And I don't wait to see if there's going to be a second one. We're off and running again in earnest. Really sprinting this time. I can hear myself gasping and wheezing like a set of defective bellows. My limbs feel like lead.

A shout goes up. Christ knows how many of them there are, but an impossible seeming amount considering how it was only a few seconds earlier we thought we were on our own.

Soon I'm on the point of collapse. The sound of blood rushing through my head so loud it drowns out even the occasional exchanges of gunfire. Can't go on, but I daren't stop. It feels like something inside me is going to explode.

It gets worse.

Pulling out of a side road a hundred or so yards in front of us is the black Safrane limo that was chasing us earlier. Or possibly a second identical one. Difficult to tell for certain.

Lara puts two bullets smack into the centre of its windscreen. The only result is a couple of white star patterns appearing in the glass. Bulletproof. The next two bullets go through the radiator grill instead, though not, apparently, to any greater effect. Finally she tries the front tires. That doesn't work either.

Brakes squealing, it swerves up onto the pavement in front of us, screeching to an abrupt halt. Lara manages to drag me into the cover of a line of wheelie-bins just before its front window slides down and someone opens up with an Uzi.

Saved my life I guess. I'd have been slightly more overflowing with gratitude if it wasn't her that got me into this mess to begin with.

Approaching footsteps. The others are still coming up behind us. And forward is completely out. I notice Lara's is looking out over the railing. There's a boat moored parallel to us against the bank.

"Move."

Dashing forward in a half crouch to stay in the cover of the bins she vaults the railing effortlessly, her dress flying out behind her. I watch open mouthed as she sails through the air, then drops out of sight. There's no splash, so she must have made it.

How the hell am I supposed to do that? Eh?

Buggered if I know. Another burst from that Uzi ripping into the bins gives me all the encouragement I need to make the attempt though. I launch myself forward in the nearest I can manage to a sprint.

The railing looms ever larger ahead of me. Suddenly the boat looks an awfully long way away. . . At the last moment I bottle it. Instead of jumping I desperately try to skid to a halt. I end up slamming into the railings hard enough to knock myself backwards onto my arse.

Hauling myself to my feet I can see Lara looking at me from the boat's deck. I can't read her expression. Then someone shouts at me in French. Shouts? Screams more like.

I don't understand what they're saying right away, but I instinctively put my hands up. That appears to have been the right thing to do. No one blows my brains out straight away at least.

Someone grabs hold of one of my arms roughly and I'm shoved facedown onto the pavement. "Don't move! Don't move! Legs apart! Hands on head! Now!" When I take a fraction of a second longer than instantaneous to comply someone kicks me in the side.

I'm aware of a whole forest of legs around me now. Scared? You wouldn't believe how much. I daren't so much as move a muscle.

Then someone places a foot none too gently in the small of my back. "This is him?" Spoken in accented English, apparently for my benefit. "Not much to look at, is he?" He doesn't wait for any response though – either from me or his men.

He leans closer, and this time the voice comes from somewhere close to my ear. "So, little man, who are you exactly? What is your relationship with our dear Ms. Croft?" 

Instantly I dislike that voice – fear it. It is an arrogant voice. The voice of a man who believes that it his right to do anything, without possibility of censure. I try to tell him that there is no relationship, but I can't find enough breath to form words. Apparently the question is a rhetorical one. My silence draws no punishment.

"Lara!"

No answer. I hear the boat's engine start up. She's going to leave me the lurch. Bloody hell.

"Lara, I have your friend here!" He raises his voice even louder in an effort to be heard.

Again there's no response, so he nudges me painfully with the toe of his shoe. "Get up."

I obviously don't move fast enough for his liking because he grabs hold of my hair once I'm onto to my knees and yanks upward. It really is excruciatingly painful – feels like my scalp is being torn off. Once I'm on my feet he forces my head right back and presses the barrel of his handgun firmly into the skin behind my ear. Then I'm frog-marched up to the railing. 

Part of me has flat switched off. If he were to let go I'd collapse. I _know_ that shooting me would require no more effort on his part than squashing a troublesome gnat.

"See Lara? I'm not lying! You've got a three count to stop the engine and come out on deck. Otherwise I decorate the streets with this man's brains."

The angle my head is I can't see anything except night sky, but nothing seems to happen right away.

"One!"

I can feel rivulets of icy sweat running down my spine.

"Two!"

Inwardly I'm cursing her name. This is all her fault. I'm going to die and she's going to stand by and – 

"Th – "

Suddenly the engine sputters and dies. The count stops. Numb relief courses through me.

"Alright Bernard, here I am. No need to get overexcited. You wouldn't want to lose your hairpiece."

* * *

"You know, this is all very well Tone, but you're not telling us the one thing we all really want to know."

Tony looked across at Sol suspiciously. Thankfully Baz appeared to have calmed down at least. "Yeah Sol? And what's that?"

"Did you shag her?"

Tony groaned as laughter went around the table. "What do you think? Of course I bloody well didn't. What kind of a stupid question is that?"

"I'm disappointed in you Tone."

"Oh? And I suppose you were having to fight Nicole Kidman off with a stick. Seeing as I recall you mentioning how you spent so long tailing her and ex-hubby when they were in London a couple of years ago."

"Yeah, but the two of us never got to spend so much , you know, quality time together. Like you and Lara seem to have managed." More muffled sniggering. "Two adults thrown together in trying circumstances. . . You know what they say."

"No."

"Not even quick kissy-kissy? Like Baz managed with old Marlon."

"Hey! That was . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, your friend Baz. Not you. We all believe that one a hundred percent."

"I can't believe you sometimes Sol. Mind like an open sewer. I think I'm going to shut up now."

"Tony, just ignore him." Jack butted in, as was his habit. "We all know Sol's like a rabbit on Viagra, if only inside his own head." A chorus of agreement went up. "Now stop whinging and get on with it."

* * *

We get bundled into the back of two _separate_ cars. One of us in each – no forget I said that. That's obvious. Lara, lucky girl, gets to go with Bernard.

Bernard Laroque to give him his full name. There's a man to give you nightmares. Still makes me a shudder just thinking about him. That crack Lara made about his hairpiece. . . I mean Jesus, why do people do that? Can't they see what they look like? Do they suddenly forget what mirrors are for? Me, if I ever start going bald I'm going to do it gracefully. No hairpieces or comb-overs or any trying to disguise it. Anything else makes you look like a complete tit. 

Anyway, sorry, the subject's Bernard, not baldness. He wears these tiny steel rimmed glasses and has a mouth like a puckered arse. There's an air about him that's prissy; fussy; pedantic. Looking at him you just know he was picked on as a kid, except the way he chose to deal with it was to bulk up and become a bigger bully than anyone else. A bigger monster. And he's still getting payback twenty years later.

His men are afraid of him you can tell, and none of them are exactly wallflowers. Big, nasty looking sods the lot of them. There isn't one you'd chose to meet in a dark alleyway. . . well maybe you would, but feel free to keep your sexual proclivities to yourself.

Anyway, I get four of the bastards. Two in the front, and two in the back in close attendance, guns within easy reach. Christ knows what they think I'm going to do, but I couldn't overpower one of them even if he was unarmed and I had a baseball bat. I get a terse warning: "try anything and a message gets radioed to the other car. Croft takes a bullet in the head." Then we're driving.

The worrying thing is, she probably got a similar warning, which means my life is in her hands. And well – as you've probably gathered – unlike me she isn't a sane, rational person. Still, no Bernard. That's almost enough of a bright side for now.

Not a lot of conversation going on as you can imagine. Tense and strained are the two words that come most readily to mind. And the air in there is pretty rank too. A large part of that's probably down to me, seeing as how I've been sweating like a pig and all, but I don't think any of my companions are totally blameless either. What I'm getting at is that I've had more enjoyable trips.

We head out across the river over onto the Left Bank. No one's made any effort to blindfold me – which I thought was _de rigueur_ in these situations – so I can see exactly where we're going. Catch a brief glimpse of Notre Dame Cathedral. Note the proper pronunciation there Ryan. That might be more useful if I knew Paris better – and wasn't such an intrinsic coward. Heck, they've even let me keep my camera.

Anyway, I guess we drive ten, fifteen minutes or so. It feels like much longer, but you know how time flies when you're having fun.

The helicopter's sitting in the middle of a parking lot, rotors still turning. Air traffic regulations anyone? I guess they just don't apply to some people. We pull to halt nearby and I get shoved out unceremoniously. My legs give way beneath me – turned into noodles by lactic acid build up – and I end up sprawling on the ground in an ungainly heap.

One of them 'helps' me up none to gently. Gentlemen all.

I notice Lara being helped out of the other car too. They're taking no chances with her. She's got her arms behind her back and is wearing a set of cuffs. Bernard's gripping her around the bicep and steering her along like a jealous husband.

Then she turns towards me. I notice the livid bruise on her cheek right off. It's difficult to miss it. Three guesses as to how she got that. The look in her eyes. . . I decide in that moment that whatever else Bernard is, he's an idiot. Some people you just don't try to bully. He obviously hasn't realised that one yet.

Someone's getting out of the helicopter.

The affect on everyone around me is instantaneous. Toy soldiers snapping to attention, even Bernard. Me, I'm too exhausted to stir myself out of my slouch. Wouldn't feel inclined to in any case. I've never had any military hankerings.

Actually it's three somebodies. Two are pretty much identical to the louts I'm surrounded by already, only with bigger weaponry. Nasty looking black submachine-gun type things. The one walking between them is, I presume, this Gerard Montarron geezer that Lara mentioned.

From what I know of the guy he must have been in his late seventies, maybe even early eighties. Well preserved is all I can say. He could pass for twenty years younger. Sure his hair's white, but it's a lustrous white mane, and his face looks weather-beaten rather plain old. Better shape than Jack here by a long shot, and Jack's what, forty odd?

Very distinguished looking too. Manages to wear a cravat without looking like he's the sort to hang around gent's toilets, if you take my meaning. Oh, you wear a cravat too Jack? I'd forgotten about that. I am sorry. . . Also has this black cane, though from his vigorous stride he scarcely seems to need it. The look on his face is. . . well a little weird. Intense I guess is the word I'm looking for.

He goes straight past me without so much as a glance. Almost enough to make you feel you're not wanted. To tell the truth I'm grateful. As far as I'm concerned they can forget about my presence entirely and I'll be very happy. Waking up in my hotel bed to find it was all a dream would be better still.

He stops in font of Lara, and for a time the two of them just look at each other. Then he says something. I almost jump out of my skin. Jesus. You know _The Exorcist_? He sounds a bit like the possessed girl. Regan is it? No way should a human voice sound like that. What language he's speaking is a mystery. Arabic? Hebrew? Sanskrit? I'm just guessing wildly here, but its nothing like anything I'm familiar with.

Lara replies. I suppose it's the same language though it's difficult to tell because she sounds vaguely normal. Still can't understand what she's saying exactly, but you get to learn people well enough in this job. She's just told him where he can shove it. Sideways.

The old guy doesn't like it. He makes a gesture and Bernard drives the butt of his pistol into the back of her neck, dropping her to her knees.

"It would be better for you if you tried to co-operate. I can make things very unpleasant for you if I want to." This time his voice is completely different, speaking refined French-accented English. What you'd expect.

"Really?" She speaks what I take to be a name here. Too many syllables and too sibilant by half. I lose it after Absalla-something. "More unpleasant than having to speak with you?"

"You wouldn't believe quite how unpleasant, my dear."

"I know that you're going to kill me whatever I say. That puts you in a bit of a difficult bargaining position I think. I've got very little motivation." May as well have been discussing the weather.

"Then proper motivation will have to be found. Bernard, perhaps you'd like to start breaking bits of her? Beginning with her, hmm, fingers I think."

Bernard gives a discreet cough and the two of them exchange a meaningful look. Suddenly Gerard Montarron smiles – an odd, disconnected expression – and nods. "Yes, yes. Quite right as always. . . Bernard. We should do this somewhere slightly more. . . discreet. We wouldn't want any of this getting out, would we?"

Lara gets yanked back to her feet again and suddenly we're off and walking. A nice little parade. Frankly I could do without the repeated shoves in the back to keep me heading the right direction. For one thing they're hard enough to leave bruises.

Finally I realise where we are. Other things on my mind and all. Near the entrance to the Catacombs, and apparently we're heading on underground. 

You know the Catacombs? Date from the 18th century or somesuch, when there was a problem with Paris's cemeteries. Namely they were overflowing. So the Catacombs got built, and all the dead from the local cemeteries were exhumed and relocated there. Major tourist attraction now, and the over sixties get in for free. Hah, who says the French don't have a sense of humour?

It's creepy enough at the best of times, what with masses of bones on either side, gleaming where they light catches. Skulls, ribcages. You name it, all neatly stacked and arranged. The sheer volume is the most alarming thing. Makes you imagine an entire city struck down with plague or something. Not an experience you're likely to forget in a hurry.

Right then it was a damn sight more than just creepy. Footsteps echoing crazily and mixing in with the sound of constantly dripping water; getting prodded constantly forward, between the endless exhibits of the macabre. I can't help but wonder if I'm going to end up joining the multitudes of dead all too soon.

Wouldn't it explain why they've made no effort to stop us seeing where we're going? That they have no intention of either of us surviving the night?

At times like this your own imagination is the worst enemy you have.

I don't know how long we walk down there – I hadn't thought that the Catacombs were that extensive. At one point we pass down a tunnel that is closed off to visitors, and still they seem to spread out in front of us endlessly. Finally we hit a dead end – a stone wall in front of us, with nowhere else to turn. What now? I can feel my heart thudding in terrified anticipation. Surely we can't have come all this way just for this.

Behind me there's a murmured conference between Bernard and Montarron. I don't catch the words. When it's over Bernard steps past, up to the wall. He looks a little troubled, as if something unexpected has occurred.

I don't see what he does next, but immediately there's a rumbling sound and a section of the wall swings inwards. Open Sesame.

A phantom of memory stirs. Didn't the resistance have headquarters down here during the war? I'm sure I read that somewhere. One of Montarron's old stomping grounds perhaps. Just the place for a private bit of torture followed by a double murder. Nice and private.

I balk as I get shoved towards that dark opening. Something about it says I _really_ don't want to go through there. That earns me a whack hard enough to send me sprawling forwards onto my hands and knees, where I manage to knock half the skin from my palms. Someone grabs me by belt and collar and hauls me through bodily.

To start with it's pitch black; can't even see my hand in front of my face. Then someone turns on a light. There's a period of wild flickering where all I get is crazy half-glimpses of my surroundings that I can't take in properly. Then everything steadies down, bathed in a soft yellow electric glow.

Jesus.

I know I'm gaping, but still. Jesus.

I very much doubt that this place was ever a resistance headquarters. Not unless they went for a lot more in the opulence department than I'd previously thought. I can scarcely do the place justice in words. Gilt pillars supporting a vaulted ceiling painted with a fresco of the constellations; a wide expanse of pink-veined marble floor; some kind of bizarre looking altar thing with what look like brass organ pipes rising up off it. Bizarre and spectacular. 

You know those rumours you hear about a Masonic lodge hidden somewhere in the underground system? Well I'm guessing this is the Paris equivalent. Except in this case it's more than just some bollocks urban legend.

I'm so stunned that I don't notice what's happening at all for the next few minutes. I get herded off into a corner, and at some point Lara gets shoved beside me. Still fuming.

"What is this place?"

Initially she just gives me a dirty look, but then elaborates; "Gerard likes his strange male bonding rituals. Or did at least."

"Male bonding rituals? The weird aprons and funny handshakes sort of thing? What d'you mean 'or did at least'?" 

A fraction too loud obviously. One of the bozos turns round and smacks me one. "No talking."

As I pick myself up gingerly from the floor I can feel blood trickling down my chin, my lip swelling up to around twice its normal size. The look I get from Lara is supremely unsympathetic. Cow.

At that moment Bernard and Montarron make their entrance. I hadn't realised they hadn't joined us yet. Montarron seems to have undergone a bit of a transformation, and now looks like he's feeling every single one of his however-many years. He's clinging to Bernard's arm to support him, as well as his own walking stick.

There's a couple of ornate mirrors positioned either side of the entrance. Immediately as the two figures pass between them something happens.

It's like the air becomes charged. I can feel the short hairs on the backs of my forearms lifting up and there's the sense of a sound – a sort of thrumming vibration – beyond the range of my hearing. The surfaces of the mirrors seem momentarily to bow outwards, the reflections in them becoming strange and distorted.

There's a harsh cracking sound. Both mirrors shatter explosively, showering knife-sharp fragments of broken glass.

For one crystaline instant there's total silence. Then uproar – everyone talking and shouting at once. Guns are being brandished, and I see in the face of the nearest of them what I can only describe as panic. Bernard himself pulls free of Montarron and pulls his own gun, his mouth tightening down even more than his normal expression. There's a distinct aura of worry about his whole posture.

Montarron leans close to him and says something that I'm too far away to catch. A moment later Bernard starts bellowing orders.

Just for the minute the two of us seem to have been forgotten.

* * *

"Hey, am I talking to myself here?" Tony broke off as he realised that no one was looking at him anymore.

He followed the direction of the gazes. A woman who didn't look any older than about twenty. She had short-cropped blonde hair and was wearing a very brief satiny slip dress_. Absolutely bloody typical_. 

Though she was indeed rather good looking, he had to admit after a moment's pause. He found his eyes travelling the length of her legs on a kind of autopilot and pulled his gaze away quickly. _Christ, aren't we a bunch of sad old –_

"What Tone? You say something?"

"I said, am I talking to myself here?"

"No, no. Go ahead. We're all paying full attention." 

"And then I woke and realised it must have been that dodgy pot I'd been smoking earlier on. The End."

"Tone!"

"Well it may as well end like that. None of you lot give a damn."

"Really, we're listening. Jesus, don't be so damn touchy." Baz, completely un-touchy in any way whatsoever, there.

Tony closed his eyes, leant back in his chair and tilted his head back towards the ceiling. What the hell. Might as well go on to the end. It wasn't as though he'd expected anything different, was it?

* * *

Okay, I've managed to completely lose my train of thought thanks to you lot.

Yeah, right, thanks. So Bernard's bellowing orders. A short time later six of them are organised into a squad heading back out into the catacombs in something of a hurry. That leaves just Bernard, Montarron and a couple of guys nominally standing guard over us.

I say nominally because they don't seem to be paying much attention, more intent on looking around nervously than at us.

A brief glance across at Lara has me gaping again. Must be easily surprised, me. She's somehow got her wrists in front of her and is in the process of removing the cuffs, casual as you like. She notices my attention: "If you're going to handcuff someone don't let them see which pocket you put the keys in."

A piece of advice that I'm sure is going to prove terribly useful in future. Should I ever fancy a new career as a serial killer.

Now that everything's calmed down slightly I realise Bernard and Montarron are heading towards us. I feel something clench up inside me. ". . . don't worry yourself Bernard, the mirrors did there job. The invader is destroyed. And I'm sure that your men are quite capable of dealing with any more. . . mundane threats."

Bernard, I have to say, doesn't appear quite as confident of this as his boss.

"Ah, Lara. So sorry to have kept you waiting. I do hope you'll accept my apology?" He inclines his head in an almost imperceptible bow.

"Oh, don't worry about it – " She uses that incomprehensible Absalla-something word again. "I could see you were fully occupied. Very smoothly done I might add, making sure that Bernard here accompanied you between the mirrors so as to deflect suspicion. I notice that you seem to have recovered from your momentary weakness." Her hands are behind her back again, like they're still secured.

Montarron laughs out loud, the acoustics of this strange temple catching the sound and amplifying it oddly. "My, you do have the strangest and most vivid of imaginations Lara. Who is this – " He makes a waving gesture with one of his hands. "Abs – I'm sorry, I can't pronounce what you said – you keep referring to? I'm afraid you've got me at a loss."

Silence. Prolonged seconds of it. I can feel myself sweating. Montarron is the first to look away with a slight twist of his lips. "I tire of this game. I'll give you one last chance to answer my question peaceably."

"What question would that be? In all the excitement I seem to have forgotten."

"You know very well."

"What's the matter? Afraid to speak in front of dear old Bernard here? Afraid he won't like the truth?"

There's a look in Montarron's eyes that I don't like one bit. I want to tell her shut up and stop trying to provoke him, but my mouth is too dry. I can see Bernard looming out of the corner of my eye – a badly wigged shadow.

"So go on Abs, ask me again where you can find the spirits of your damned brothers, entombed in jars beneath the earth."

At that Montarron snaps. I jump as he lashes out, striking Lara full across the face. She's knocked over backwards, landing in a heap. I can see a line of blood trickling down her chin and her eyes look glazed. Bloody hell. For an old man Montarron packs quite a punch.

"Enough!" Montarron lets out a breath and turns away. "Bernard, you recall our conversation from earlier on about breaking things? You have my permission to begin."

Bernard still appears slightly taken aback, particular by the blow he's just witnessed. After a slight delay he nods and stats to advance on Lara, any doubts overcome by the apparent desire to inflict pain on her. I'd guess there's a longer history than I'm aware of here.

Montarron's voice cuts him off. "No. Not her. Lara I think, would only revel in playing the martyr. A modern day. . ." He hesitates, as if searching for a particular word. "Joan of Arc. Him instead." He nods toward me.

Bastard. Absolute bastard. 

Bernard turns to face me. He looks annoyed as hell at being called off his favoured target, but I get the impression he'll be quite happy to work that annoyance out on me. I try to back away, but one of the other two who've stayed behind grabs hold of me before I can take more than a step.

"Lets see how Lara enjoys watching someone else suffer for her refusal to co-operate."

Bernard grabs me and swings me round, as easily as if I was a child. I try to struggle but I may as well not have bothered for all the good it does. He wrenches one of my arms back behind me and twists until it feels like my shoulder joint is on the point of popping. Then he prises open my hand and starts to bend back one of my fingers.

You don't want to know how painful it is. I start howling even before the final wrench that breaks it. There's a sound uncannily similar to a pistol shot and I think I must have blacked out for a few seconds. When I come back I can hear myself gasping raggedly, the only thing keeping me upright Bernard's iron hard grip. My hand feels like it's exploded – a single mass of red noise.

Bernard grabs the second finger. "Do you want to step in Ms. Croft? Your friend really doesn't seem very pain tolerant. You can save him a lot of further suffering.

"Please. Please." That pathetic whining sound, I realise, is me. No stoically bearing the pain here thank you. I mean, this doesn't even have anything to do me for Christ's sake. Anyway, all those guys you see in movies? I can tell you they'd be singing like canaries in real life.

"Okay Gerard. Call your dog off. I'll tell you what you want to know."

Bernard shoves me face down onto the marble floor. It still hurts too much for there to be much in the way of relief. Just a kind of mental numbness.

As I look up I see Lara take a step towards Montarron. Bernard moves quickly between them, cutting her off.

"Now, now Bernard. I wasn't going to try anything."

What happens next – well I still have a little trouble getting my head round it. Bernard, being Bernard, takes a swing at her and misses. Lara ducks beneath it neat as you like, and as she comes back up again she brings her hands round in front of her, giving up all pretence at still being cuffed. Bernard makes another attempt with a blow that'd near take her head off if it connects, but she's not even there. 

What she does is somersault straight over his head and land behind him. It's like what you'd see in a kung fu movie, except there the actors are on wires. She sure as hell ain't on any wire.

While Bernard's still trying to work out what just happened – _where'd she go?_ – Lara reaches round him and snatches his gun from his holster. The two other heavies are just now coming to the conclusion that something's a bit off here and are in the process of bringing their guns to bear. Too slow though. The first one takes a bullet straight through the throat.

If I wasn't still so light-headed from the pain I think I'd have hurled at that. He goes down gargling and spurting. Hideously nasty. In this case his Kevlar vest isn't going to do a whole lot of good.

The second one actually gets his gun up in time but hesitates because Bernard's blocking his shot. That costs him. Lara shoots again and I see his kneecap get blown out. He collapses, howling, dropping his pistol and obviously out for the count.

_Shoot Bernard!_ I'm praying inwardly.

But no, she's taken too long on the other two. A swung elbow catches the pistol and sends it flying from her grasp. Then Bernard spins and rushes her, trying to use his greater bulk and strength to best advantage. Montarron just stands off slightly to one side watching, a faintly amused half-smile on his lips. A Roman Emperor watching a pair of gladiators perform for his amusement, only half interested in the outcome.

To start with its like some kind of weird modern dance – perhaps meant to suggest overtones of a bullfight. Lara backing away and dodging as Bernard keeps charging at her, trying to bury her. She lands a series of blows that seem to have no more effect than gnat bites.

Abruptly it all changes. Lara whips her foot up into his midriff. This is no gnat bite I can assure you. You can hear the impact halfway across the chamber, and I know I'd be curled up in a ball on the floor if it had landed on me. Bernard though, simply catches hold of her leg and bears her violently backwards, slamming her hard against one of the pillars.

I can see the pain in her face at the impact. This time the matador's been a little too slow and has gotten caught by the bull. Bernard draws back and slams his shoulder hard into her midriff again, and I see her start to sag as the breath gets driven from her body. A third time and she grabs hold of his hair and tears, trying to twist his head to one side.

The wig rips away, trailing strings of glue. Beneath, Bernard's scalp is a bright, shiny pink – completely hairless. It looks like its been badly burnt some time in the past. At a guess I'd say Lara probably had something to do with that.

He doesn't seem to notice the loss, ramming hard into her stomach for a fourth time. As he draws back slightly she collapses, sliding down the pillar to the floor.

There's no mercy though. No let up. Scenting weakness like a shark scenting blood in the water he starts to rain in a hail of kicks, catching her repeatedly in the midriff, hips, side, back and thighs. It's like he's possessed. Absolutely insane. Soon she's unable to make even half-hearted attempts to fend off the blows, just curled up on the floor and whimpering slightly with each impact. He's going to kill her.

The realisation is like a knife sliding home. I try to move, my eyes fixing on the gun Bernard knocked from Lara's grasp, lying on the floor about ten feet from me.

No, I haven't just discovered hidden depths of heroism. But I have come to the realisation that when Bernard finishes with Lara I'm going to be stuck completely on my own here. Alone with Montarron. Alone with Bernard. It's all a question of prioritising fears.

My hand feels about the size of a boxing glove. Useless. Cradling it to my chest I start to scrabble towards the gun.

"Bernard. Stop!"

Bernard freezes mid-kick at Montarron's shout and looks back. He's quite literally frothing, a line of foamy spittle running down his chin. I've never seen a human expression quite like that before or since. He's completely gone.

"I need her alive, if you remember."

It looks for a moment like he's going to ignore Montarron and continue laying into her. But then he nods and simply steps away from her. It's chilling how quickly the utter madness of his expression is smoothed over into normality. Lara groans, still just about conscious.

"And where do you think you're going?" I freeze as I realise Montarron is looking straight at me. The gun is no more than a couple feet away. I stretch for it.

Montarron simply makes a gesture in my direction. I know this is going to sounds nuts and all, but just before I manage to grab it, the gun slides out of reach. Across a perfectly flat floor, straight towards Montarron.

Bernard is apparently every bit as surprised by this as I am, staring at the gun's serene progress goggle-eyed. He doesn't notice Lara move behind him. 

She lashes out hard, sweeping his legs out from under him. Taken completely unawares, Bernard goes over backwards. The back of his skull strikes the marble floor with a sickening thud. 

There's a moment of complete silence in which everyone seems to be holding their breath. The gun stops sliding across the floor with Montarron distracted from his Jedi Master bit. Bernard remains completely motionless. I'm temporarily rediscovering religion.

Lara breaks the spell by hauling herself up onto her knees. She groans aloud as she does so. You can see the pain of simply moving clearly on her face.

"Did you have to do that Lara? I was starting to like him you know."

"Well you would Abs. You've zero taste you haven't stolen." She forces herself to her feet, though even I can see that her legs almost give out beneath her.

"That's not nice Lara. You should be nice, I think." He makes another gesture, and the gun, about equidistant between them, resumes its slide towards him. "Otherwise I might tempted to be not nice back."

Lara ignores him and hurls an object she's concealed in the palm of one hand. A coin. It strikes Montarron in the centre of his forehead, leaving a bloody welt behind. The gun stops again.

As she starts moving unsteadily towards it Montarron howls at her, using that scary as hell Regan-voice again. A violent pull with one hand sets the gun in motion once more. Lara hits him with a second coin.

The gun is now within six feet of Montarron, and Lara is at least twice that distance from it still. It starts moving again. She hurls a third and last coin, then launches herself into a run. Three feet left and Montarron is reaching down for it. Somehow, despite her condition, she manages to execute a diving roll. . .

A fraction later there's a resounding bang that reverberates through the entire chamber. The top of Montarron's head disappears in a mist of blood.

* * *

"Hey, I remember when you did your hand." Rus intervenes. "You said you hit it with a hammer. Doing a bit of DIY I recall."

"Well I lied. I wasn't going to tell you this crap was I?"

"You saying this is really what happened? Straight up?"

Ryan lets out an audible sigh. "Course it didn't. Man you're gullible Rus. Gun's that slide across the floor by magic. Secret temples in the Paris Catacombs. . ." He shakes his head. "Do me a favour."

Only to be expected really, Tony thought. If somebody else had told him this he'd have probably laughed out loud.

"I do seem to remember about a French politician vanishing a few years back now you mention it though." Bent Jack put in suddenly.

Ryan sighed. "No you don't. You're as bad as Tony is Jack. Thinking we'll swallow any kind of crap you're willing to feed us."

"I do. Honest. Now I'm not saying I believe everything Tone says. Just that I'm willing to keep an open mind about it. It's only probably complete bollocks."

"Thanks Jack."

"Don't mention it dear boy. Don't mention it."

"Still, interesting story." Sol opined. "So, what are you. . ."

"I haven't finished yet you know. Not by half." There was a rather wry twist to Tony's smile. "But if all you lot are convinced I talking a load of. . ."

"No, no. I just thought. . ." Sol gave an absent wave. "If there's more then lets here it, right lads?"

"Yeah."

"May as well."

"Whatever."

As close to a ringing endorsement as he could probably expect, all things considered. "Okay then, _this_ is how it ends. . ."

* * *

I don't know, maybe I'm seeing things and it's a combination of the stress and the pain of my broken hand that's making me hallucinate. Or maybe not.

Anyway, for a moment after he's been shot Montarron stands stock-still, eyes glazed over and staring off into nothing. There's blood pouring down his face, and I get this weird impression that _something_ – a sort of red and black stain; I can't describe it better than that – shoots out of the top of his head, shrieking. Okay, okay, I know what it sounds like, but hey, that's what I thought I saw. Only for an instant mind. A fraction of a second later Montarron topples over backwards and hits the floor with a limp thud.

Now I'm feeling a bit freaked. Before today I've never seen even one person die, and I definitely don't have the stomach for it. I'm shaking pretty hard; feel freezing cold. Delayed action shock or something.

Lara's acting weird too. Muttering to herself, and quickly stripping off one of the gloves she's wearing. Underneath she's got this weird looking ring on. Sort of like a very old signet ring, with what looks like polished steel set in it. Her gaze is darting all over the place, and she's still got the gun held at the ready as if she expects trouble any second.

I don't know what. The only person still alive in here apart from us is the bloke she shot in the knee, and he's just lying there groaning to himself. I guess I must have asked her what's wrong.

"He didn't die quickly enough. The djinn managed to get out."

It takes a couple of seconds to sink in.

"The djinn?" She has got to be kidding me. 

"That's what I said."

And there I was thinking that I'd escaped the two most dangerous psychos in here. Obviously not. "What, you mean djinn as in genie? Arabian nights; magic lamps; Aladdin and all that."

"Well I don't mean the sort that goes down nicely with a dash of tonic water."

Nuts. I tell myself that. But. . . At the time I was feeling rather more credulous. Doubt starts to creep in. Scepticism is easy from a safe distance.

"You mean djinn, as in the three wishes sort of djinn?" I persist.

She turns and gives me a long, appraising look. The sort that makes you want to wither up and crawl into the nearest available hole. "If by some chance your three wishes happen to run to being forcibly possessed, dying a horrible death and having your soul eaten, then yes, you may be in luck. Otherwise? Probably not."

My jaw shuts with a click. "You serious?"

I can see the sarcastic response before it's spoken. In the end she bites it back and resumes her nervous survey of the chamber.

"Poor deluded idiot." Belatedly I realise that this wasn't aimed at me. Instead she's looking at Montarron's corpse. "He wasn't a bad man you know. Well okay; he was arrogant, scheming, dishonest, greedy and manipulative. But he was a politician. Politicians are supposed to be like that. I liked him anyway." If I didn't know better, I'd say she was on the verge of tears.

"So what happened?" From what I've seen this evening, if there was a queue of people deserving of a bullet in the head Gerard Montarron would be right near the front of it.

"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as the saying goes." She sighs, and it's several seconds before she continues. "I was recovering an artefact for him in. . . Northern Iran. A very specific jar from a very specific location. I didn't know at the time it contained Abs here. I didn't check."

I feel rather like I'm spiralling down into madness. "Aren't Djinn supposed to be. . ." I hesitate over the word nice, realising I've fixated on the disneyfied image voiced by Robin Williams. The older stories, I seem to remember, are a very long way indeed from nice. "Don't Djinn have to do what you tell them?"

"A bound Djinn can only gain its freedom by granting three wishes." She's almost whispering. Not really talking to me. "What that rather fails to mention is that on the third wish the Djinn is free to do whatever it likes. Usually starting with eating the person who forced it to grant the wishes."

"Is that what happened to him?"

She shakes her head. "No, poor old Monty didn't even get one wish." There's a sound and Lara spins rapidly, raising her pistol. Just the bloke with the dodgy knee, surfacing slightly from whatever delirium has taken him. "You see, he used the ritual of release on it. Bloody cretin."

"The ritual of release?" Ah yes. That would explain _everything_.

"Idiot." I'm assuming she still means Montarron, though I guess its fair either way. "Did it at the Opera house a few hours ago. Apparently seasonal factors favoured that particular node in the ley lines. He was heavily into all that stuff was Monty."

_Okaaay_. This is getting more surreal by the second.

"The ritual of release, you see, frees the Djinn entirely from its bindings. Not what Monty thought he was doing at all."

I almost understood that. Which is worrying. "So what does it want with you then?"

Lara smiles – it's not a happy smile. "The place where I found Abs? There wasn't just the one jar."

The implications of this slowly sink in. Suddenly the lights go out.

Someone gives a high, girly scream. Oh yes, that would be me. There's something about being plunged unexpectedly into complete and utter darkness. I've mentioned I've been scared at other points, but this is something else again. My bladder comes about this close to seriously embarrassing me.

"Don't move." Lara's order. Believe me I have no intention of shifting an inch. 

I hear the soft swishing sound of her dress, and what might be very light footsteps, moving away from me rapidly. She's leaving me on my own. . . Paranoia becomes perfectly natural in the dark.

Off to one side I can hear the man she kneecapped. He sounds louder than he did before. More frantic. And there's something else too. Something nasty. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling. I know it's watching me. Coveting. Hungry. 

I'd run, except I _know_ I'd be running towards it whichever direction I chose.

It? The Djinn. In the dark I believe implicity.

A light comes on. It's almost as alarming as the plunge into darkness. Just a small light this time. Lara is crouching over Bernard's prone form holding a small pen-torch. Obtained from one of his pockets no doubt.

I get a brief impression of movement – something rushing past me, straight at her from the side. She senses it late. It's almost on top of her when she spins, lifting the hand with that weird ring on it. There's a. . . well not really a sound; more a reverberation inside my head. Pain and fury. Then it's gone.

I can see her face. Tense and drawn; feel my own relief. "That's it. . ?" I start.

Something washes over me and I stammer to a halt. The feeling is not unpleasant. Quite the reverse in fact, like being suffused in a warm bath. Suddenly everything else seems detached from me – irrelevant. I'm no longer a part of all this. In fact I'm drifting off to sleep. . . Safe and sound; danger passed.

"Anthony, are you okay?"

"No I'm bloody well not okay! I've been shot at; abused; had my finger broken by a raving psycho. This may be all in a night's work to you, but I'm not. . ."

Umm, someone's holding a conversation. Anthony. They've got the same name as me. What a coincidence. Oh I can't be bothered with all that. It's too much effort. Lara's a lot closer to me now. I wonder why? Ah, of course, succumbing to the inevitability of my laddish charms. It's a wonder she's taken so long. . . Hmm, she's turning away from me. That's not on.

I notice an arm reach for her, around her throat. Part of me wants to shout a warning, but no, I'm asleep. Can't do that sort of thing when you're asleep can you?

Abruptly the world flips over and I'm staring up into darkness. The light is now off somewhere over to my left and I'm aware of pain. I can feel it, but it doesn't seem to belong to me – not really. 

Now Lara is looming over me. Standing with a foot in the centre of my chest in fact. Interesting. I can see up her dress again. "Nice try Abs. You're so predictable. Now why don't you just let him go? That body's hardly going to do you a lot of good, is it?"

Laughter, coming from very close to. "One piece of information Lara. One tiny piece. Then I'll do as you ask. I take it you were lying about Northern Iran?"

Heh! Whoever's speaking is mimicking my voice now.

"Give it a rest Abs. You don't think I'm going to risk letting more of you lot on the loose do you? Worse than bloody football hooligans."

Then she's gone, falling backwards. Everything goes a bit weird for the next few seconds, but a short time later we end up facing each other again. This time I'm staring straight down the barrel of her gun, experiencing a feeling of mild, disinterested outrage. _She's pointing it at me?_

"You're not going to shoot me Lara. We both know that."

"Why not? I shot Gerard and he meant a lot more to me than this little oik ever will."

Finally I'm beginning to get some sort of inkling – although I still can't summon the energy to really care. And who's she calling an oik?

"Ah, but Gerard brought it on himself. Gerard was justice. This one is an innocent, however grubby."

"Gerard had rather an idealised view of me. I wouldn't put too much stock in whatever memories you stole from him."

"You're bluffing Lara." Then she's rushing towards me, or vice-versa. It's impossible to tell.

_Bang! _The warm bath comes to a very abrupt end.

I'm lying on my back on the floor, panting for breath with an absolutely abominable pain coming from my right side. Reaching down to the source of the pain my hands come away bloody. Finally I realise what happened.

"You shot me." Dazed and incredulous still.

Lara is crouching down beside me to inspect the bullet wound. "Keep still." A moment later she grunts softly. It sounds almost satisfied.

Fury rises. "You effing shot me! You absolute bitch! You tried to kill me."

"Oh, do be quiet. I did not try to kill you. I assure you I'd have done a much better job if I had." She grabs my good hand and pulls it down to the wound. "Now put pressure here until the bleeding stops and don't move." I cry out as she presses my hand down on top of the bullet hole. Mengele probably had a better bedside manner than her.

"You shot me." Okay, I've said it before. But hell, I think some things bear repeating.

"Yes, I did. But it got Abs out of you didn't it, so stop complaining."

"Huh?"

"You must have noticed surely? The djinn. It'd possessed you. No? Anyway, it's only a flesh wound. I hit exactly where I was aiming. You were never in any danger."

Oh, yes. I'm sure she'd be just as blasé if I'd shot her. "What if your aim was out?"

She considers. "Then I'd have gut shot you. It takes a long time to die from a gut shot. You may have lost a couple of feet of intestine, your spleen, or something, but you'd probably have been largely okay in the long run." She pauses, apparently considering. "I suppose the bullet might have lodged in your spine. But that would have been _really_ unlucky now, wouldn't it?"

Jesus. I felt better before the attempted reassurance. "You expect me to be grateful?"

"You should be." She seems to have lost interest in me, since I'm not apparently going to bleed to death right away. She's gone back to searching the room, using the pen-torch to sweep systematically from corner to corner. "Now shut up and stop whining. I'm trying to concentrate."

A whimper from her other surviving shooting victim draws her attention. When she raises her gun again I half-expect her to put a bullet in his head. But no, she lowers it again a few seconds later. Apparently she's perfectly happy wounding people in cold blood but killing takes a little more effort.

"Give me your camera."

"Hey!" Somehow the thing has managed to survive all of this intact. She grabs hold of it and pulls it up over my head. "What are you doing?"

No explanation is forthcoming of course.

"So then Abs, what are we going to do next? You seem to have run out of bodies apart from me. Well, unless you enjoy men with no knees that is." She pauses, glancing down at me. "Or used goods here. Your lot are picky about used goods aren't they?"

There's a red and black blur, so fast that I can't pick out details. Despite its speed Lara manages to skip out of its reach neatly. She holds up the hand with that odd ring on and wiggles her fingers, flaunting. "Ah, ah. Silly Abs. Has no one told you stealing is naughty?"

There's another blur. When it passes Lara is still holding up her hand, only now the ring is gone.

Oh-Oh. Bit of a mistake there I think.

Laughter resounds. I think it is more inside my head than any physical sound. "I will _so_ enjoy eating you – " I don't recognise the last word, but at a guess it's the djinn equivalent of bitch or whore, or something similarly derogatory.

Something moves directly above her, swooping down. Calmly she lifts the camera and clicks. The flashbulb is stunningly bright as it goes off.

Then everything is still. I realise that I'm holding my breath. "Lara?" She hasn't moved.

Her head swings round. I swallow heavily. Is that her looking at me from behind those eyes? Or something else. I start crawling away.

"Yes?"

"Er. . ."

She smiles. Something that really has me worried. "Don't worry, it's still me." 

Obviously I don't look reassured. She holds the camera up by its strap, for all the world like it's turned into a piece of radioactive waste. "Abs has found a new home."

I guess my continued confusion shows. "You saw what happened when Gerard passed between those two mirrors, didn't you?"

That, apparently, is meant to be an explanation. She looks annoyed when I don't get it. "They don't like images of themselves. In a disembodied state it can trap them. Mirrors are particularly bad because the glass is too brittle. It shatters, destroying the djinn along with it. You never wondered why the stories involve polished brass lamps, or rings? No, I guess you wouldn't. Coins work too apparently. That was what was inside the jar I found."

And that is all I'm getting. "Can you stand? I'd rather not leave you lying around here for when the others come back."

I stand, even though doing so is agony. In normal circumstances you don't realise how much you use the muscles in your side when getting up. I'd wager I want to be left behind considerably less than she wants to leave me.

"No chance of me getting my camera back, I suppose?"

"In a word? No."

I start to protest. She silences me with a glare. "I don't trust you not to try and get the film developed."

Fair enough I suppose. I wouldn't trust me either.

"Come along. Lets get going."

It's not until much later that I realise that Bernard's body was no longer in the spot where it had fallen when we left.

* * *

"And that's why, if ever there comes a time when pictures of Lara Croft become worth anything again, you'll not catch me going within a hundred miles of her. I mean that most sincerely." Tony stopped, realising that – again – no one was paying any attention to him anymore.

"See. I told you lot he used this place as a local," Rus was saying. 

Suddenly everyone around Tony was clambering to their feet, everything he'd just said apparently forgotten. Sol paused briefly as they streamed past to pat him on the shoulder. "Nice story Tone. Almost had me going for a minute."

"Guy! Guy! Over here! Madge not with you then? She know you're out on your own?"

THE END


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